New Year's Dawn
by boysloveboys
Summary: A not-so-happy new year at the office.


**Note:** It's really depressing. That wasn't entirely what I wanted to do, so sorry if it's too sad. Haha. I hope your new year is much better than Grell's. :c

* * *

_Suicides down for the moment—speculated increase in January._  
_Alcohol-related accidents sharply increased._  
_Murders at average level._  
_Consult your ledgers for specifics._

_Happy New Year._  
_—Management_

White flurries drifted past the six-paned window, falling on a celebrating London. The office was dark by this hour, with only the occasional desk lamp illuminating the open floor plan between cramped cubicles like confused fireflies. Only a few men were in the building, most of them filling out paperwork before their shifts ended. Most others on duty were out in the field, taking the above notice—plainly posted every five feet—into account as they worked the new year's crowds in the streets.

Grell Sutcliffe sat within his cube, uncomfortable chair digging into his back. He was technically off shift (it had ended at ten), but he decided to come back to the office, waiting for the influx of shinigami who would get in at eleven-thirty, ready to have a small office celebration to count down to the new year before going back to a late night's work at one in the morning.

One of those shinigami walking through the door was going to be William.

Grell curled his lips inward at the thought, for once not smiling, but nervously pouting. His fingers, neatly manicured from hours of being assigned boring deskwork—the worn nail file shoved into his pen holder was evidence of his _true_ hard work—clutched at the brown edges of his waistcoat in anxiety. Every opening of a door or whisper of gossip from the others sent his heart into a pounding rhythm.

The reason he was so nervous wasn't simply from the deep heart-crushing admiration Grell felt for Will, though it was halfway that. Earlier, Grell too had been assigned to work the New Year's shift, but as usual, he'd ended up ruining something minor that put a hitch in everyone else's work. Grell was the reason the shinigami coming in before midnight would be going right back to work at one.

And William, who hated overtime more than anyone, had set those frighteningly angry green eyes on Grell the moment the new schedule for tonight's festivities had been announced.

Yes, it was all Grell's fault.

He finally leaned forward, curling his arms on the desk and settling his head atop them. He let out a sigh, his brows carved with worry for what would come. Because of him, William wasn't going to have a happy new year; he was going to work. And because William wouldn't have a happy new year, it was certain he'd make sure _Grell_ had an extremely unhappy new year.

Grell shut his eyes tightly in an attempt to stop dwelling on his anxiety. Opening them again, he quickly stood up, leaving his red coat behind in the cube as he made his way to the break room. He wove through the cubicles, amused green eyes under unforgiving lenses following him as he went, each pair of irises seeming to say: _Look at the fuck-up go._

Indeed, the oblivious office flirt suddenly didn't hold the same air as usual. It was like watching a beaten wet dog walking to an execution.

Grell closed the break room door as soon as he was inside. He couldn't bear those cruel eyes on him anymore. He let out a soft sigh of relief in the empty silence and went to the table. Sitting atop it was a giant platter of cookies, surrounded by smaller plates of different assortments of biscuits and tiny pastries.

He had gotten off his shift, but he'd come back—bearing cookies. Maybe it wasn't much. He knew the others would undoubtedly bring in the liquor, though William would surely shake his head at drinking on the job. And that was why Grell made cookies. Who didn't like cookies?

He didn't, at the moment. Looking at the products of his guilt only brought a shamed blush to his cheeks, for it wasn't only Will he'd given more work, but the entire group of shinigami working with him, as well.

Maybe it had been a bad idea to wait around for everyone, he realized suddenly. He wanted to apologize, but perhaps it would be best to let them enjoy their office party before work started back up, without the source of said work getting in the way. How awkward that would be...

Grell turned to leave, and the door swung open. A bright smile greeted him, accompanied by rounded glasses, and topped with a head of brilliant fiery hair.

"Yo—are those _cookies?"_

Grell barely opened his mouth to respond in awkward greeting—as Ronald was one of the overtime crew—when Ronald just darted past and made for the cookies. Well, at least one of them would enjoy Grell's apologetic efforts.

"_So_ good," Ronald purred, leaning back against the table, apparently holding no grudge against Grell. "Hits the spot after all that work!"

Grell cracked a sheepish grin, points of his teeth just barely showing. It went away immediately as the rest of the group barged in, looking a lot less enthusiastic and more grumpy than Ronald.

"That overturned carriage was a pain!"

"Did you see how fast that demon descended on the bridge-jumper? Vile, hungry bastards, the lot of them!"

"What kind of idiot lets himself get killed in a bet for that low sum anyway?"

The mixture of voices drowned out Grell's concentration, and it took him a while to find the door again, now that so many suited shinigami had crowded into the room with their complaints and gossip. He heard a few muttered "Oh, look who it is" comments here and there, obviously directed his way with great distaste, and he lowered his eyes as he waited for the way to the door to clear.

There was a hand on his arm. The shining watch on it let him know just who it was, even if Grell was reluctant to raise his head too much, as if he could stay hidden. (As if his blood red hair didn't give him away already.)

"Hey, don't worry about it," Ronald mumbled in Grell's ear. "We did such a good job just now that only half of us are going back into the field at one. They're probably the ones pissed at you. But hey, everyone fucks up sometimes!" Ronald smiled and winked, cheering Grell up immensely. And with his other hand, he produced a shot glass—Grell hadn't even seen them pouring drinks because of his own troubles—and downed the amber liquid with a loud cry of celebration.

"It's almost the new year!" he shouted, and the room broke its complaints for the moment to cheer in response.

Girls filtered in from absolutely nowhere, clinging to Ronald's arms and drawing him away from Grell. He looked back with a sorry smile. Grell understood.

No one lingered around Grell too long unless they had no reputation to care about anymore; Ronald was an exception—he simply didn't care about what anyone else thought. For that, Grell was thankful. Maybe he couldn't call Ronald a _friend_—Grell didn't have any of those anymore—but he certainly was happy that he took opportunities to talk to him.

Grell took a last glance back at the champagne bottles and his dwindling treat platter before darting out of the break room. He couldn't stay in such a hostile crowd for much longer; a lot of them had no issues taking their verbal frustrations out on Grell even when it wasn't the redhead's fault they had to work long hours.

Well, since he was still here, he supposed it would be a good idea to apologize to William. He was bound to be nearby.

Indeed, he was. Grell could see him just outside his office—Will was high up enough and did good work to have his own, true room to himself rather than a broken-down cubicle. Tall and lean, with that neat black hair and marble-sculpted bone structure, and the air of a nobleman despite being no such thing... no, William Spears wasn't hard to miss at all, especially not to the one who admired him from afar.

He wasn't alone, however. Many of the girls from downstairs had come up to meet everyone else for the festivities, and one chatted Will up outside his door. Grell was astonished to see Will strangely loosened up, chatting back with her easily, rather than being his usual stern self and telling her to get back to work or face a write-up.

He couldn't be blamed, Grell supposed. The girl—Maria, was her name?—was exceptionally lovely, an elegant and hardworking girl who took her job seriously and won the favor of many. Her long brown hair shone as it waved down her shoulders and back, and her pretty white skin glowed just as enchantingly as the snow falling outside. And that figure... that enviable, feminine figure...

A blossom of sweet pain welled up in Grell's chest as he watched.

What he'd give if just one time, William spared him that small smile he wore on those elegant lips now. What he'd give if just one time, William talked to him like he did to that pretty girl, like they were equal beings on this Earth. What he'd give if just one time, William didn't look at him like he was trash to be disposed of, a thing of absolutely no consequence.

He had no business butting into their conversation for a paltry apology that William would undoubtedly reject to the fullest, and so he tore his gaze away and went back to his cubicle. He plucked his jacket from the hook on the flimsy divider wall and put it on, his breaths hurried. Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? Fresh air would do him well. Yes, that was what he needed.

He couldn't get outside quickly enough. As soon as he burst free from the building, he gasped in the icy winter air, savoring its cold burn in his throat and lungs. Tiny flakes of snow melted against his flushed cheeks, cooling him down. He felt feverish; this cold was just what he needed to be normal again.

Not that he'd ever really been _normal_, in any sense of the word. Sometimes he liked that he was strange. And then there were days like this—too many days like this—where he was reminded that it was unacceptable to be anything besides normal. The office fuck-up. That was Grell Sutcliffe.

He turned around with a flutter of his coat to face the building in which he worked, eyes pointed above the rims of his red glasses at the lighted windows above. The distant _clip-clop_ of a horse echoed through the surrounding city, defeated quickly by the howl of wintry wind whipping past the red figure in the white snow.

"Will..." It was no more than a whisper, audible not even to himself. A shimmering smear of wetness rested upon his cheek. Snow, perhaps.

He could see William barge through the door and out into the winter chill. A romantic scene, as snow swirled around them, drawing their souls close.

_"Where are you going?"_ Will would demand, in that irresistibly stern way of his. _"You can't leave now. ...I need you here."_

And he would stop Grell, and make him stay, and hold him here.

Romantic. And impossible.

The vision dissipated, drifting in broken, glittering pieces to the uneven white blanket at Grell's feet. The door stayed closed. No one stopped him from leaving. No one had even noticed he had gone.

He walked.

The rooftops were silent tonight, even as the songs ringing in the new year started up down distant roadways. His second love was surely warm at home, perhaps putting his young master to bed at this hour. Grell could always admire, but he knew quite consciously that the demon was out of reach. There was someone whose entire being was captured by that frightening child; Grell had no way to reach it and take it for himself. He wondered who truly consumed whose soul, in such a deep relationship.

He wondered what any kind of deep relationship was like, for that matter.

An orange tabby moved away from the doorstep as Grell walked up, putting his keys into the door and going inside. The dwelling was dark and empty, the air cold but still thick with the scent of the cookies he'd made just over an hour ago. He didn't bother brushing the snow from his shoulders and hair tonight, and walked to the tiny bath chamber nudged into a corner of his small home. A hot bath would do him much good, he thought.

He shrugged his clothes off, each cheaply-manufactured garment smelling like the day before: cookies, the office, fading cologne. He slipped his glasses off, the beaded chain clicking gently as he set it down beside the plain bathtub. Red, with his favorite skull motif beads, these glasses were a part of a shinigami's pride. He stared at them as he stepped into the tub, his face darkening with shame.

Pride. What pride? He barely had any of that left anymore. After William's constant lectures, the mocking stares from the others, and his own embarrassing failures—the one today still fresh in his mind, like a red burn on his pride—he could only feel shame at still being called a shinigami. Compared to hard workers like William, and up-and-comers like Ronald, Grell knew he was nothing but a useless body that only got in the way.

He slumped down into the lukewarm water, his red hair drifting on the surface like silk, even as the water rose to his bottom lip. He drew his knees up and hugged them to his chest, shivering gently. Past the thin walls, he could hear the city grow louder, signaling the new year's dawn.

Screams of excitement, shouts of congratulations, bells, whistles, horns, pops of champagne, and clinkings of glasses to toast the year ahead. People with their families and friends.

People spending the transitioning night with their special someones.

Grell sank deeper into the water until he was fully submerged. Bubbles sprouted above his nose and lips, popping without a sound, nothing like the celebratory champagne bubbles in houses all around him. His hair slid beneath the clear water, swirling in thick waves.

His green eyes stared up at the bare ceiling, and the flickering light. His hair spilled into his vision and pulled him into velvet red darkness.

The year began. There was nothing new about it. Nothing washed away for a new beginning. Only the old regrets and sadness, refusing to vanish. Only deep red sorrow, and his own company.

Grell's hair parted in the water once again, blood red against the snow white backdrop of the bathtub. His eyes were closed now. No bubbles emerged.

The new year rose strong and hopeful.

Grell did not.


End file.
